


Eight Times Emerging

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-16
Updated: 2007-02-16
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Dean had a kitten when he was twelve.





	Eight Times Emerging

**Author's Note:**

> For ladyjaida.

It was just sitting there in the bushes one afternoon, when Dean got back from riding his bike around—a little orange-and-white kitten, tucked between the boxwood and the weathered siding of the house. Dean propped his bike against the front steps and crouched down on the mulch, reaching out with one hand. "C'mere," he murmured, rubbing his fingers together. The kitten shrank back, ears tucked down against its skull, its tail fluffed out.

The screen door banged open and Sammy came out, holding a red popsicle that was slowly melting down his arm. "Whatcha doin'," he said.

Dean stood up. "Nothing," he said.

"I'm bored," Sam said.

"Go watch TV," Dean said.

"I wanna ride bikes," Sam said. "Will you make me grilled cheese?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Sure, Sammy. Okay."

Sam flopped down in front of the TV after lunch, content now that he had a full belly. Dean went outside and wheeled his bike into the shed—it looked like it was going to storm, heat lightning already striking in the distance. The air smelled like rain, crisp and hot. Dean hated South Dakota, its flat boring crappiness, but he liked the thunderstorms.

He looked under the bushes when he went back inside, but the kitten had left.

He fed Sammy the last of their cereal the next morning. John had been gone for a week, and Dean wasn't sure when he'd be back, but he hoped it was soon. He had fifty dollars in an envelope tucked in his sock drawer, but he wanted to save it for an emergency. Food wasn't an emergency, and Dean didn't need money to get it.

He rode his bike to the grocery store—not the big fancy one near the highway, but the little one owned by Mr. Sutter, who was old and easily distracted, and more importantly, _mean_. Dean didn't feel too bad about stealing from him.

He took a can of cat food, just in case.

The kitten was under the boxwood again when Dean got back. He emptied the cat food onto a saucer and mashed it up with a fork, then took it outside and set it on the ground. He sat on the front steps to wait.

It took a while, but eventually the kitten crept forward and started eating, neat little bites, its sharp teeth flashing white.

Dean reached out slowly and scratched the kitten between its ears. It flinched away from him, ears flat, but it didn't run off, too tempted by the food to be afraid.

It was a tiny thing, barely bigger than Dean's hand, and so soft. When it was done eating, he scooped it up and cradled it against his chest, feelings its warm little body struggle against him, claws catching in his t-shirt. He stroked along its spine and it settled after a while, its heart going so fast. Dean lifted up its tail to check, but he didn't really know what he was looking for. It wasn't like the kitten cared what it was.

He'd always begged John for a dog, but a kitten was just as good.

He took it inside to show Sammy. "I found a kitten," he said, sitting down on the couch next to Sam.

Sam dropped his comic book onto the floor. "Where'd you get it?" he asked, petting the kitten's back.

"Outside," Dean said.

"Is it a girl or a boy?" Sam asked.

"I dunno," Dean said.

Sam lifted the kitten's tail. "It's a girl," he said.

"Yeah right, Sammy," Dean said. "Like you know."

"I _do_!" Sam insisted. "It was on TV."

"Whatever," Dean said. "Her name's Tiger."

"That's a good name," Sam said. "Dad won't let you keep her."

"I know," Dean said, and scratched behind Tiger's ears. She dug her claws into his leg, kneading his thigh with her paws.

"She's purring," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. He slumped down on the couch and lifted Tiger onto his chest, holding her there with one cupped hand. He turned on the TV.

John came back two days later. Sam and Dean were finishing breakfast, and Tiger was sitting on the table by Dean's empty cereal bowl, lapping at the milk. They heard John banging around in the front room, setting down his things, and Dean sat up straighter, bracing himself.

He wasn't disappointed. "No," John said. "Absolutely not."

Dean swallowed and looked down at his toast.

"We'll take care of her!" Sam said. "She can sleep in our bed!"

"A pet's a big responsibility," John said. "We're leaving at the end of the summer, and I don't want you getting too attached."

Dean picked at his toast crust.

" _Please_ , Dad?" Sam said. "Dean named her Tiger, and she always purrs when she sits on his lap and stuff."

John sighed and ruffled Sam's hair. "Sorry, boys," he said. "She needs a real home, with people who can take care of her for a long time. We'll put an ad in the paper."

"No," Dean said. "I'll find a home for her by the time we leave. Okay? I promise. But can I keep her until then?"

John shook his head. "Dean—"

"Please," Dean said. "Dad. Please."

He could see the moment when John relented, the soft slump of his shoulders, the worried curve of his mouth. "All right," John said. "But you'll have to mow lawns to buy food for her. And I'd better not find any presents in the corners."

Dean's face went hot with relief. "Thanks, Dad," he said.

"Yay, a kitten!" Sam said, and poured himself some more Lucky Charms.

Dean put up fliers for his lawn service, and within a week, he had six different clients—all old people who thought he was a sweet, upstanding young man. Dean mowed their lawns, and afterward the old ladies invited him inside for lemonade and showed him their crochet or whatever.

Tiger slept with Sam and Dean, curled tiny and warm in the crook of Dean's elbow.

He bought special kitten food for her, the dry kind, and every other day he gave her half a can of wet food, which she liked a lot better, but it was too expensive to feed it to her every day. Sometimes she killed moles and ate them on the back porch—Dean would come back from mowing, sweaty and tired, and find a bloody stain on the floorboards.

"Tiger killed a bird today," Sam announced, eating an apple. Tiger was sitting on his shoulder, and he held her there with his free hand, keeping her steady.

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, kicking the screen door closed behind him. "You saw her?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "She caught it in the back yard and I saw her eat it. There's some feathers under the porch. You can go look. It's really gross."

"I bet," Dean said, and lifted Tiger off Sam's shoulder. She meowed at him, her little pink mouth opening, and rubbed her face against his hand.

He found a home for her in August. One of the old ladies whose lawn he mowed had a granddaughter who wanted a kitten, and when she came over to visit, Tiger curled up in her lap and fell asleep.

"I guess she likes you," Dean said, grudgingly.

The granddaughter was a few years older than Dean, and she smiled at him, patted his shoulder. "I'll take care of her," she said. "You don't need to worry."

"Sure," Dean said, but he knew he'd worry anyway.

The day before they left South Dakota, Dean put Tiger inside his shirt and rode his bike over to the granddaughter's house. She was waiting for him, sitting on the steps with her dress hiked up over her dirty knees, and she jumped up when he pulled his bike up in front of the mailbox.

"You'll take care of her," Dean said, handing Tiger over.

"I got the kind of cat food you told me she likes, and I have a litter box, and I bought her some catnip toys," the granddaughter said, all in a rush, holding Tiger snug in her arms.

"Okay," Dean said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well. Okay then."

He didn't go right home after that—he rode his bike to the other side of town, pedaling hard and fast, the wind blowing the sweat out of his hair and the speed easing the tight, hard pressure in his chest. He'd lost things before, things bigger than a kitten; and Tiger wouldn't have been happy living in motel rooms. She needed a yard to run in, and birds to kill, and someone to buy her fancy toys with bells and feathers and bits of ribbon. It was the best way.

The cat fur lingered on his clothes for weeks.  



End file.
